


The Women Who Lunch

by Sadbhyl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is in a rush of errands.  She really doesn't have time for Mycroft's games.</p><p>Except it isn't Mycroft...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Women Who Lunch

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for Series 3. In as much as we know anything about Series 3.

Mary shifted the bags on her arm and checked the to-do list on her mobile. With the wedding only two weeks away, time was at even more of a premium, so she had found herself relying more and more on the strict taskmaster of her planning app.

According to her digital dictator, she had about forty-five minutes to get to her dressmaker for the final fittings. “Right,” she said aloud, “tea.”

She turned on her heel to head for the nearest Pret only to be stopped by a tall redhead standing in her path, a mild not-quite-smile on her lips, rather like an insincere receptionist. “Miss Morstan?”

“I’m sorry, do I--”

“Let me take your bags.”

They were already out of her hands before Mary could protest, the woman efficiently loading them into the trunk of a dark sedan that had suddenly appeared curbside. “Those are mine!”

“Yes, Miss Morstan. Please, won’t you get in the car?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Look, John warned me about this. If Mycroft Holmes wants to talk to me, he can bloody well make an appointment.”

“Please, Miss Morstan. I assure you, you won’t be late to your dressmaker’s.”

“How do you--” But the woman gestured towards the car’s open door “Fine. It will take more time to argue about it.” She slid into the rear seat, mobile still in hand. The redhead closed the door behind her and went around to the driver’s side where she got in and smoothly pulled away from the curb.

Mary texted John as the car turned off of Oxford Street towards Waterloo Bridge. _He finally got around to me._

They were on the bridge when the message came back. _???_

_Mycroft. I’ve finally earned my required Holmesian kidnapping._

_That pillock. I’ll bloody murder him._

_Don’t. It’s fine. I’m rather looking forward to it._

_Adrenaline junkie._

_Isn’t that why you love me?_

_One of many reasons. Sure you’re okay?_

_I’m sure. I’ll stop by the flat afterwards. Dinner?_

_Sounds great. Be careful._

_He’s not going to hurt me, John. Just...loom at me._

_Sometimes that’s all it takes._

They pulled up in front of a posh looking private hotel near the Albert Embankment. Her escort got out and held the door for Mary. “You’re expected,” she said, gesturing towards the door.

“But what about my things?”

She gestured toward the door again.

Surrendering, Mary climbed the five marble steps to the front door, which a liveried doorman opened with a touch to his hat. “Well, at least it’s not a warehouse,” she muttered under her breath and went in.

An equally smart butler met her inside and escorted to a small side parlor. The room was cozy, white on white walls, a fire burning in the marble fireplace, pale gold love seats scattered around a truly enormous goldenrod Persian rug.

All of which was overshadowed by the woman holding court in the wing chair opposite the door.

She was delicate, certainly no taller than Mary herself, her dark hair perfectly styled and her makeup flawless. Her suit was made of a fine wool the shade of old roses. Although calling it a suit called into question the pedigree of the pantsuit Mary wore. Instead of slacks and a blazer, this woman’s outfit fit her like a glove, from the tapered waist and tastefully low neckline of the tailored top to the close fit skirt that forced her to cross her legs modestly at the ankle. Mary suspected there wasn’t much force involved. This woman oozed poise and grace in a way that made Mary feel decidedly clunky.

“Please, Miss Morstan, have a seat.” Even her voice was elegant, although Mary thought she detected a hint of Estuary English in her accent. “I took the liberty of ordering tea.”

She could be churlish and reject the invitation, but she was stuck here until Mycroft decided he was done with her, and she’d wanted tea anyway. “Thank you.”

Sitting, she caught herself carefully folding her own legs under her chair.

“I can imagine what a stress all these wedding plans must be,” the woman said, pouring out tea for both of them, adding sugar and lemon to hers without asking. “I imagine John isn’t much help, as busy as he is now that Sherlock is back.” She offered the cup and saucer.

“I’ve yet to meet a man who is much help at planning a wedding.” Mary accepted the delicate china. “His heart is in the right place, that’s all I can ask.”

The woman watched Mary over the lip of her own cup, sipped briefly and then put her cup down. “It’s a funny thing, Doctor Watson’s heart. Slippery. Just when you think you have it, you find it’s somewhere else.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“More or less.”

“I would say rather less. I have no doubt about John’s affections, although I’m not quite sure why they’re any business of yours.”

“And what about Sherlock’s?”

Mary put her own cup down. “Am I supposed to feel threatened by Sherlock Holmes?”

“Are you?”

“No, I’m damn well not. I know what John went through while he was gone, and I know what he went through when he came back. I’m just grateful they both survived with their souls relatively intact.”

“Even though you have to share your fiance?”

“Look, Miss Whatever your name is, I don’t share John. Neither does Sherlock. There’s plenty of John for both of us, and you can tell that boss of yours that if he thinks my life is so pathetic that I sit around home pining for my husband, he can pull his head out of his antiquated ass so I can tell him how wrong he is to his face.”

“My...boss?”

“Mycroft. Holmes.” Mary spat each name out like a curse.

“Ah. Of course. You and John really are very alike, aren’t you? Right down to your loyalty. And your mistakes.” The woman rose, every elegant line smooth and unruffled. but with a look on her face that implied she’d found out what she’d needed to, and that it had surprised her. “Thank you for coming by, Miss Morstan. Finish your tea if you like. I’ll have Kate take you to your dressmaker’s when you’ve finished.”

“I don’t want any ruddy--” The door shut behind the woman with a soft click “--tea.”

***

She didn’t stay for the tea.

Tempting as it was to catch a cab back across the river, this Kate person had her things hostage. Instead Mary marched out of the hotel, ignoring both butler and doorman, and threw herself into the back of the sedan like a petulant teenager.

She had her phone in her hand before they’d pulled away from the curb. _Give me Mycroft’s number_

A few moments later, John texted back. _Why? What happened?_

To her surprise, before she could respond, she received another text. _Don’t tell John. -SH_

She hesitated. Sherlock never texted her when he could have John do it for him. _Why not?_ Her fury settled into curiosity.

_Please. -SH_

_Mary? Are you okay?_ She could sense John’s concern through the characters.

_I’m fine. Nothing happened._

To Sherlock, she sent, _You owe me an explanation._

_I know. Thank you. -SH_

_I can’t promise I won’t tell him._

_I know that, too. -SH_

_Are we in danger?_

_We aren’t, no. She might be. -SH_

_She was foolish. She shouldn’t have bothered you. -SH_

_Who is she?_

_A dead woman. -SH_

_A friend. -SH_

_I think she likes you. -SH_

Mary thought about that. _You people have a strange way of taking care of each other._

_Remember that John is one of us, too. -SH_

_Must be why I like him so much._

_It’s certainly why he likes you. -SH_

She slept her phone and leaned back in the leather seat, thinking about her encounter with the woman.

The woman.

Oh.

She bit her lip, thinking about John’s posts about the Belgravia case and the woman who beat Sherlock Holmes. The one John thought Sherlock had cared for.

The one who was dead.

The car pulled up at the dressmaker’s, and Kate came around to open her door for her, letting her onto the curb before popping the trunk to retrieve Mary’s bags.

Before she could turn away, Mary laid a hand on Kate’s arm. “Tell...your boss. Tell her not to worry. I’ll take care of them. Both of them.”

Kate’s expression never wavered. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll pass on the message.”

“As will I.”


End file.
